Passion, that thing of beauty, that flowering without roots, has to be born, live and die without reason.

To live is often only to have a choice of several despairs.

We do not yet know each other because we have not yet dared to be silent together.

we can search for and attain to only one being, that one which was given us, which is within us and which awaits its birth from ourselves. Each day I feel that I leave myself a little more, the better to go toward my encounter with myself.

Passion, that thing of beauty, that flowering without roots, has to be born, live and die without reason.

Without imagination, nothing is dangerous.

All the goodness, beauty, and perfection of a human being belong to the one who knows how to recognize these qualities.